


The Finnish Shack

by Catchclaw, Crowgirl



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Canadian Shack, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23398495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: The stove is doing its best. Presumably it was meant to take the chill off the passing hiker, not thaw two people who had been slogging through a white-out.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 7
Kudos: 219





	The Finnish Shack

‘Where the hell are we?’ Q blinks snow off his eyelashes and looks around. 

‘Just be glad we’re anywhere.’ Bond’s across the room, fiddling with what looks like the world’s tiniest woodstove.

There is water under Q’s collar and ice in his gloves. His feet ache and his lungs feel like glass and if Bond doesn’t get a match struck soon, he might shatter.

Bond strikes a match, tosses it into the stove, and holds out a hand to Q without looking at him. ‘Come here.’

‘Why?’ Q is shivering so hard he hurts and moving makes it worse.

‘Because I’ll be damned if you die of hypothermia three feet from a fire. Come _here.’_

James, of course, looks like he’s just come in from a brisk afternoon’s skiing. Hair a bit tousled from his cap and face flushed pink but all in all, the man looks like it’s Tuesday. You’d never guess that they’ve been shot at, chased, and are now stuck in a fucking snowstorm. All in a day’s work for a double-oh, Q supposes, but it isn’t for him.

He tries to pull off his gloves -- long-since frozen stiff -- and when he can’t do it quickly enough, Bond groans and marches across the tiny room to him and pulls off first one glove, then the other, then moves Q bodily across the room and sets him in front of the open stove.

‘There,’ Bond says, patting Q’s shoulder as though he were a horse. ‘Stay there and try not to freeze.’

‘Where are you going?’ There’s a kick of panic in his voice; how it got past the icebergs in his throat, he doesn’t know.

Bond’s hand squeezes Q’s shoulder; it never technically left. ‘Going to rustle about a bit, that’s all. Find out what we’re working with. Now go on. Take off your boots.’

The door opens and slams shut -- aided by a healthy gust of wind -- and Bond’s gone. Q forces his stiff fingers to undo the fastenings on his coat and crouches down in front of the flames. He can feel the heat but it isn’t touching him yet although it’s making the ice frozen into the wrinkles of his coat sleeves start to thaw and drip. 

Slowly, slowly, he breaks out of his boots and yanks off his socks, stretches his feet towards the stove. It’s doing its best. It’s not nearly enough. Presumably it was meant to take the chill off the passing hiker, not thaw two people who had been slogging through a white-out.

It takes him a few minutes to shrug the wet weight of his coat off but it finally lands on the floor with a damp smack. Thank God his jumper’s still dry.

‘Anything snap off yet?’ 

Q isn’t sure which is worse: the atrocious quip, Bond’s cheeriness, or the wall of cold air that hits his back. ‘Too soon t--’ He bites his teeth together hard to keep from stuttering with the cold and then says very carefully, ‘Too soon to tell.’

‘Try to keep it from being anything major, will you?’ The door bangs shut. ‘We haven’t actually got a first-aid kit.’

‘I thought you double-oh lot were prepared for anything.’

‘Those would be the Boy Scouts, dear.’ There’s a _shuff_ of fabric and a warm weight drops over Q’s shoulders. He clutches at it, tugging it tight around him before he realises and Bond is chuckling at him. It doesn’t sound unkind, though, and quite honestly Q is still cold enough that the embarrassment of burrowing into Bond’s coat worries him less than the numbness of his toes. 

‘Did you find out where we are?’

‘A mountainside in northern Finland.’

‘Well done. I could have told you that!’

‘My skills do not extend to magically determining location during a blizzard, Q; I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

Q shudders and Bond makes a grumbling noise. Before Q can ask what the problem is _now,_ Bond’s kneeling beside him and _rubbing_ Q’s arms, his shoulders, his back.

It should be awkward. It should be making Q bark, having Bond’s hands on him, that narrow, appraising gaze fixed to his face. It should be galling, truly, an unwelcome invasion. It is none of those things.

Bond’s hands clasp both of his at once and they’re so _warm_ Q can’t stop himself making some kind of noise. Bond’s eyes flash wide and dark for a second, then he’s looking down at Q’s fingers. ‘If you’ve gotten yourself frostbitten--’

‘What? You’ll never forgive me?’

A snort. ‘It’s not me you’ll need to worry about. M will have your head, won’t he? And mine.’ He lifts Q’s hand and tips it towards the light from the open stove, like it’s a diamond he’s checking for flaws. ‘These are Her Majesty’s assets, aren’t they?’

Q can’t think of anything to say in the face of his skin gently warming against Bond’s. Bond makes a faint, satisfied noise, and folds Q’s hands together again and, before Q can do anything, presses them against his own chest, chafing Q’s knuckles gently with his palms.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bond says.

‘For what?’

He feels Bond’s pinkies slip against his wrist. ‘Dragging you into all this.’

‘Dragging me?’ His whole face feels like a question mark and he can’t tell if Bond is serious. He can’t take his eyes from Bond’s grip, from the way his own skin looks like porcelain, the way the scars on Bond’s knuckles seem to sing.

‘Were you really supposed to come any further than Helsinki?’ Bond smoothes one thumb over Q’s knuckles.

Q swallows and tries to keep himself from shifting nervously. Bond waits in silence, his hands falling still around Q’s. The fire crackles, burning brighter every minute beside them. A gust of wind rattles the door and when it sweeps away into silence it takes Q’s hesitation with it. He isn’t a fool. ‘I wasn’t supposed to be in Stockholm.’

‘Ah.’ One side of Bond’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. ‘So why were you?’

Q shrugs, careful not to dislodge Bond’s hands. ‘You were clearly going to get yourself killed.’

‘And you could prevent this.’

‘If you don’t like my plan, you’re welcome to step outside and pick a direction to walk in, Bond.’

‘Am I?’ A chuckle, one that Q can feel more than hear. ‘Well.’

There’s more to be said. Q can see it in Bond’s face, feel it hovering in the moment between them. But whatever it is goes by the board when their eyes meet, by the sound that slips from Q’s throat.

‘I -- didn’t mean for _this_ to happen,’ Q says softly, twitching his fingers against Bond’s palms. And he hadn’t, truly. Whatever this is between Bond and him has been building for ages; he’s had time to think about it, to picture what a resolution would look like, what the resolution he _wants_ would look like. In all his imaginings, there had been more planning, more control over the circumstances, less wooden shack and wood stove.

‘Mm...’ Bond hums, unconvinced, and resettles himself more comfortably; the end result is that they’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh, along one side.

Q thinks, a little hysterically, that if this had happened when he _wasn’t_ damn near frozen, he might have passed out on the spot. 

‘Now, I’m not sure I believe that,’ Bond says finally, reaching up to adjust his coat over Q’s shoulder, his fingertips grazing Q’s collarbone.

Q stills, feels his breathing go shallow, and holds himself so Bond’s fingertips won’t leave his skin. ‘I’m -- not sure I want you to.’

This time it’s more of a purring sound deep in Bond’s throat and Q will never admit to a living soul the effect it has on his chest.

‘Really.’ The word a warm balloon, the flicker in Q’s gut now a flame. ‘And why might that be?’ Bond’s thumb turns a little, swallows up more of Q’s flesh -- goosebumped, and not from the damn cold.

But he can feel his fingertips now so he reaches out and plants his hand on Bond’s shoulder, then looks down at Bond’s hand and theatrically adjusts his own so they mirror each other.

By the time he’s done, Bond is only barely fighting back a grin.

‘Q.’

‘Yes, James.’

‘Come here.’

Q glances down at the lack of space between them and raises an eyebrow. ‘If I get any closer, I’ll be in your lap.’

Bond -- damn him -- grins, then pushes himself back so he’s sitting against the wall beside the stove, and pats his knees. ‘C’mon, then.’

Q moves without thinking because if he thinks, he’ll hesitate, and if he hesitates, Bond might laugh it off, might brush off the tension that’s always hung between them -- a pleasant piano wire -- as easy as dry snow.

So Q pulls himself up, knocks the stove door shut with his elbow, and resettles himself in James Bond’s lap. 

He’d pinch himself to make sure he isn’t asleep or in a snowdrift somewhere except James’s hands settle warm and heavy on his hips and he couldn’t imagine James’s smile.

It’s surprisingly gentle, is the thing; not a smirk or something glad-handed, but genuine, small. Almost shy. Almost like Bond hadn’t expected him to take the dare. His hands aren’t shy, though. They’re bold, sliding up and under his jumper like they belong there, seeking out Q’s ribs as if he has every right to them.

Bond’s fingertips are chill and Q shivers before he can stop himself; James’s hands stop immediately and the smile turns into drawn eyebrows. ‘Are you still cold?’

Q rolls his eyes and resists the urge to start an argument over hiking in winter weather and his lack of expertise in the area. Instead, he edges himself fractionally closer and pushes his fingers under the placket of the long-sleeved flannel shirt Bond has on. ‘I thought you were going to do something about that.’

Bond hums and opens his fingers, starfishing his hands across the span of Q’s back, and then those lips are on his chin, his jaw, a blossom of wet upon wet. ‘How’s that? Feeling better?’

Q huffs out a breath which is not a moan, thank you, no matter the arch of Bond’s mouth. ‘Not yet.’

Bond clucks his tongue. ‘And here I thought I was such a model of efficiency.’ He shifts slightly and Q is suddenly sharply aware he can feel the muscles of Bond’s thighs beneath his own. The sensation sends a bolt straight through him, cock to throat, as though he’s been hollowed out and refilled with the distillation of how much he wants to feel Bond’s body, how he wants to whimper and grind down against Bond’s thighs, how much he wants to see Bond’s cock. Then Bond’s hands slide down and _pull_ against Q’s hips.

‘Oh,’ Bond says, very quietly. ‘Oh, is that how it is.’

They’re flush now, wholly, and Q’s cheeks are, too. He’s stiff in his corduroys, the stretch a pretty shock where they meet the damn folds of Bond’s plaid.

He’s stiff and getting stiffer and his hips are lifting, helpless, trapped between the bite of Bond’s nails and the long plank of his body.

Bond tilts his head. ‘You can’t be _that_ cold, then.’

Q can feel himself blushing and there’s nowhere to go: if he leans back, there are Bond’s hands; if he looks forward, there are Bond’s eyes and the sensation of being pinned, caught between is making his nerves shudder.

So when Bond pulls again, Q lets himself go, lets himself get tugged forward, lets himself fall, and catches himself with palms on Bond’s chest, his mouth over the angle of Bond’s jaw.

Bond makes an impossibly soft sound and melts just a little, his skin warm caramel beneath the flick of Q’s tongue. The skin of his throat is hotter still, steam rising, and his hands on Q’s back are restless now, each brush of his palms like a shiver.

And Q realises, as he strokes his tongue over the soft divot of Bond’s collarbones, that Bond is shivering: tiny, almost unnoticeable twitches of his body.

What a strange thing it is to make one of Her Majesty’s fiercest weapons shake. He’s like an épée in a windstorm, is Bond.

Q pauses to catch his breath and apparently the pause is what Bond has been waiting for. Bond catches him by the forearms and yanks him forward, catching Q’s mouth in a kiss that might be painful under other circumstances. As it is, it just turns Q’s stomach liquid.

He’s caught, a bird in a snare and possibly the only one ever to be quite so pleased about it. Bond’s grip and Bond’s lips, both of them; a rough, needy sound in his throat, and Q’s head sways, heavy and so far from helpless that his smile goes on for days.

His hands on Bond’s chest curl, eager claws, and he opens his mouth, surging, and damn well gives as good as he got.

He isn’t fully aware of what Bond’s doing with his hands until he feels a draft of cooler air against his stomach and realises his shirt has been shoved up and his trousers unzipped and Bond’s hands are on his ass. 

He has to break free to get breath and leans his forehead against Bond’s for a moment. ‘Focused, aren’t you?’

Bond chuckles and his fingers slip around the curve of Q’s hip to the soft space between his thighs. ‘Darling. You haven’t seen focused yet.’

Q would have something clever to say in response to that, he has all the words lined up ready to go, he really does, but Bond’s fingers stroke one long hot line from his balls to the plumping tip of his cock and _squeeze,_ just slightly, and the words turn into smoke.

He scrabbles at the buttons on Bond’s shirt, pops at least two off the fabric, and, _damn him,_ Bond is dressed for the weather with a thick henley under the flannel and Q doesn’t realise he’s whining in the back of his throat until Bond reaches up with his free hand and tugs him down to kiss.

‘Don’t fret, darling,’ Bond says against Q’s lips, doing some kind of magic with his shoulders that leads to the flannel being in a pile beside Q’s knee. ‘Everything can be adjusted.’ 

Q doesn’t bother answering, saving what few functional brain cells he has left to pull himself back far enough to get at the fastenings to Bond’s trousers. Fumbling the placket open, he brushes his own cock with the inside of his wrist and swallows a whimper -- he’s hot to his own touch, already damp, and if he let himself, _if he let himself--_

‘Don’t for a _minute_ think I’m not having all of that,’ Bond says quietly, knocking Q’s hand away and taking Q’s cock in his palm in a proprietary fashion that Q would protest were Bond not pressing his thumb along the underside in a way that seems calculated to turn Q’s brain to mush. 

He’s spraddled wide over Bond’s thighs and Bond seems perfectly willing to ignore his own gorgeously flushed cock, curving hard against his low belly; since his position allows it, Q pushes himself forward, grabbing the bottom hem of that thrice-damned henley and yanking it up. 

Bond splutters as he’s suddenly enveloped in the folds of his own clothing and his marvellously _human_ flailing to get free of it gives Q a moment to drag in a breath and co-ordinate himself enough to edge forward. So while James is struggling free of the last fold of shirt, Q stretches, licks the length of Bond’s collarbone, and cradles their cocks together in his palms.

Bond sucks in air so deeply Q feels the expansion of his abdomen against the back of his knuckles. ‘You’re a bloody little _cheat--’_ The henley drops in a pile on top of the flannel and Bond grabs Q’s wrists.

‘And you’re a control freak,’ Q counters breathlessly. He has just about enough control left himself to keep his hips moving, his head up so he can see the flush in James’s cheeks, the red of his lower lip where he’s been biting it. There’s _sweat,_ honest to fucking God _sweat_ in the notch of his collarbone, slicking the skin of his breast, and his eyes are sparking a shade of blue Q has never seen and-- 

_‘Fuck it,’_ Bond growls and grabs the back of Q’s head, dragging him forward into a kiss electric enough that Q actually _misses_ the moment he starts to come.

* * *

He finds himself, eventually, his forehead against James’s shoulder, both of Bond’s arms around him, the coat a crumpled pile over Bond’s knees. There’s come thick and a little sticky between them, all over Q’s hands so he can’t even reach for something to clean them up with. 

‘Warmer now?’ James’s voice is almost a whisper, but Q can feel the vibration through his cheek. 

‘Considerably,’ Q allows. ‘Won’t be for long, though, if we hang around like this.’ With a groan, he pushes himself back onto his knees and makes a face as the half-slick mess on his belly starts to slide.

James chuckles at his expression and, from somewhere, produces a large dark blue handkerchief. Once he’s cleaned them both up, he tosses the cloth in the direction of the stove and hands Q the henley. 

Q holds it back out to him. ‘You’ll need it.’

Bond lifts an eyebrow at him, already buttoning himself back into his flannel. ‘Darling, your t-shirt is a charming bit of fashion but it’s much better suited for sunbathing in Brighton than a blizzard in Finland. Just put the bloody thing on, will you?’

Q rolls his eyes and tugs the shirt on; it’s big but not enough that he feels as if he’s swimming. It’s still warm from a combination of James’s body and the nearness of the stove and he hugs it around himself. ‘Don’t want to go through the bother of warming me up again, eh?’ 

He means it to be light, he really does, a return to their usual banter, but James stops as if Q had shouted at him and looks up with a sharp intensity usually saved for things that are about to explode. ‘Why did you come to Stockholm? Why were you in that coffee shop?’

‘I--’ Q leans back and only now realises he’s still basically in James’s lap. He scrabbles to find somewhere acceptable to put his hands and James pre-empts the whole thing by catching both his wrists, threading their fingers together so they’re palm to palm. He licks his lips. ‘I didn’t want you to come back dead.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Why did you stop that American from shooting me?’ Q counters. 

James nods. ‘Exactly.’

Q waits but James says nothing else. ‘Is that seriously your idea of a proposition, Bond? You didn’t want me dead on your shift? That’s not much of a line, is it?’

James’s hands tighten. ‘On my shift, M’s shift, anyone’s, I don’t care.’ 

That really shouldn’t warm Q’s heart, he knows that, but he also knows what he’s working with. ‘All right, then. Next time in a bed, though, yes? God only knows where we’ve got splinters.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> This began, as many excellent things do, [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/CrowGirl42/status/1103008344074317825).


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